


Not Necessarily Foreplay

by BlackSamuraiLiterature



Series: Pillow Talk [2]
Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: Blood, M/M, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSamuraiLiterature/pseuds/BlackSamuraiLiterature
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asking “how much have you been drinking?” was not the best choice for Adil to consider after the fact that most of his and Roland’s clothes were already laying on the floor. It did not make it much better when the reply was: “Not nearly enough for this.” [can be read alone or within a set. Aa Set: section 2/2, previous: May or May Not be Pillow Talk]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Necessarily Foreplay

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read within a set or alone. Previous section is [May or May Not Be Pillow Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933132).

Roland was occupying Adil’s bed in what may or may not have been a drunken haze. Adil was not sure himself, but what he did know was he wanted to sleep—sound and undisturbed. The floor was tough, there were not any other places to fit him, and it was his bed after all. He deserved to sleep in it. Roland faced towards the wall-side, making Adil grateful he could situate himself without having to stare him in the face. There was not much room on the bed, and Adil tossed himself around more times than he would have liked trying to find a suitable position. Defeated, he gave one final effort into making it work, knowing he would regret it later, and caught Roland’s waist in an embrace.

           The implication caught Roland’s attention.

           ‘ _Stay asleep and don’t move,_ ’ Adil thought as he squeezed his eyes shut with a low growl.

           Roland moved. Adil’s forearm slipped across Roland’s waist as he rotated himself. It took as much effort for Adil to open his eyes as much as he was willing to keep them closed, but once he did Roland’s languid face was there to greet him.

           He looked awful, but Adil figured his own face probably did not look much better. Roland’s eyes stared back at him from and empty, matte gray within their dark sockets, ashen cheeks to follow suit. The lighting half-told him this, Adil unable see anything spare a few outlines and shadows, but he knew better. No amount of darkness hid what he remembered Roland to resemble under light.

           “What?” Adil said flat faced.

           Contemplation.

           “I think an ‘us’ wouldn’t be for the best,” Roland replied, his words mundane and spacious, his thoughts as dry in tone:

           ‘ _I’m just going to get in your way. …_ _It’s my fault that… everything ends in shambles. I’m going to kill you eventually. I’m the one that—_ ’

           He felt Adil’s callused thumb brush across his upper lip as if he knew to silence his thoughts. It kept Roland quiet; Adil figured he was doing something right. His lips were coarse and cracking, but Adil continued to caress them, every stroke soothing in a strange way for both of them.

           “Do you mind if I tried anyway?” Adil asked, forgetting to add a detail or two, but Roland seemed to understand the question after some thought.

           Roland crossed over on top, grounding his forearm at the side of Adil’s face and twining his leg in between Adil’s. Roland still had his pants on—as well as that black thing Adil did not quite know what to call—and the fabric was as rough as the taste in his mouth. He tasted like smoky malt. Its phantom feel burned Adil’s tongue as they toyed with each other’s tongues.

           Then the taste was gone, but Adil went after it. Sitting upward, Adil pushed likewise with his mouth and hands, and Roland obliged. Adil began unzipping the front of whatever the jacket-shirt was. He could not care less what the piece of clothing qualified as, as long as it was coming off—along with the other non-necessities.

           They were discarded amid other forgotten clothes on the floor, and as Adil brought his hold back, the realization of reality hit him hard: “How much have you been drinking?”

           “Not nearly enough for this,” was the retort. Roland pulled himself closer to Adil by grasping at his hips, shut him up before he could spit out something stupid, and insinuated to lie back down with a pull from hooked grips on Adil’s shoulders.

           ‘ _But…_ _don’t go either,’_ Roland thought _, ‘I don’t want you to leave too._ ’

           It was hard for Adil to suppress a moan when he felt a pressure rocking on his groin. He figured that was what Roland’s mouth was for, to muffle it, but it did not in the slightest.

           ‘ _Then why are you doing this?’_ Adil questioned, but he did and did not want to know. He wanted to enjoy the release, the comfort for whatever it was, and maybe fancy that it was because Roland wanted him—that maybe they did like each other—instead of it being stress talking. Unwitting or not, stress had a hefty hand in Adil’s physical banter: his hips replying to Roland’s motions with parenthetical chatter of wandering hands. There was also the chance that the two would escalade and tire themselves out, and Adil figured he could finally go to sleep after then.

           Adil began clawing at the skin on Roland’s back. The skin broke from intense intent, and it was Roland’s turn to release an elongated, indulgent moan, his eyes responding likewise. It was the most ecstasy Adil felt in Roland for some time. Roland returned the favor, but Adil did not think it was on purpose. The scratch stung in a short, sporadic twitch, and was not as painful or pleasurable as what Roland made it seem from receiving. Regardless, Adil started from the top of Roland’s shoulders and scrapped down with precision and patience, his mind wandering:

           ‘ _Is this about what happened with Greg? There was nothing you could’ve done. We were in danger!_ ’

           And he did it again.

           ‘ _Are you using me as a replacement?... Fuck. This is all fake. Damn it. Go back to your whisky and gin.’_

           And again.

           ‘ _That’s the thing you do best. You’re not the only one that’s hopeless. You’re not the only one that’s hurting!_ ’

           And again, but this time the pressure clenching Adil’s eyes shut released at the end. There was a lot of tension everywhere in his body that did not want to settle, but when it did he noticed a metallic taste in his mouth. A similar but softer scent was in the air as well since Roland’s lips were smeared with blood from torn flesh, chunks missing from scraps and bite marks.

           Dejected, Adil tried to wipe the blood away: “You’re right. This wouldn’t work. God, Roland… what are we doing?”

           Roland felt the impression Adil was addressing more than the mess that just ensued. It would have been too much to take in, so their minds trekked through muck and mire. The blood did not seem to clear either, no matter what Adil did, and some strokes of his thumb even made the mess worse. Then Adil let out a sharp hiss: “Shit.”—He lurched upward, knocking into Roland, and turned him around—“Shit. Shit.”

           Roland’s back was marred from top to bottom. His shoulders were red, layers of skin torn through, with the gashes gradating from bad to worse as Adil’s focus cascaded downward. Adil darted to a drawer, then another, then another, scouring through their content’s stock. There were no gauze, no bandages, or cotton patches; nor was there anything to wipe the blood and wounds with.

           Adil clamped his teeth together, breaking his lips apart in a scowl.

           “It doesn’t hurt,” Roland said.

           “It doesn’t matter how it feels,” Adil spat. A wound was a weakness. Adil knew they would make Roland easier to target, whether the gashes were visible or not. At this point, he wanted something—anything—to dress the damage.

           The clothing on the floor upturned as Adil shifted through them to pull his scarf free. He folded it over to give it density in a way where it retained its full length, then pressed one end against Roland’s abdomen and wrapped it around his torso until he covered as much as he could while leaving enough fabric to knot it together in the front. The jerk from finishing the knot was not what made Roland’s hand quiver, and Adil could not help but notice, thinking he was not the only one who could use a nice, stiff drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, [scratching is used when the passive role is intoxicated... or new at it](https://67.media.tumblr.com/9cc3b33de110917f9b5f85e518cb3f49/tumblr_odcykgzq7U1vcft7po1_1280.png). The more you know.


End file.
